Month: January 2018

‘Poetry is dead,’ she said, and turned away;
How can it be I thought, all precious verse
Bound in white linen, nothing more to say,
Now carried off in some black nameless hearse?
Not yesterday, she lived and loved and gave
To empty hearts and souls, sweet smiles and tears,
And now to lay, cold, speechless in some grave,
Confirming there the worst of poet’s fears?
We must take up that precious pen she held;
We cannot let her fade into the night
Her inspiration ever must be felt
And for her legacy, each bard must fight;
Without her light, then every heart is blind,
And we accept the dumbing of mankind.

We went for a walk in that cold night rain,
I could not sit there with her by the fire;
I said ‘I’m very happy that you came
To help us see our way through this quagmire.
Each letter written said you were still true,
I had no inkling that your love had changed;
I clung to every word, I’m sure you knew,
Your love the hope I lived on, day to day.
Each day I died for truth, you lived for lies,
Please do not whisper you did this for me;
I served beside brave men who gave their lives
For truth, for love, for hope and dignity.
‘Twere better that I’d eaten there some lead,
Then to return and find that I was dead.’

‘Now dad, don’t buy me dresses anymore,’
She said, hands on her hips and in stern voice;
‘The paper says I must even the score,
And I should be fair treated like the boys;
I want to wear stiff britches, just like lads,
And drink and smoke and cuss like most men do;
I want to laugh, sing and never more be sad,
I want their pomp, their pride, their privilege too.’
She seemed to court derision in her stance,
But I disarmed her with a simple smile;
‘Do you recall when mom and I would dance,
And will you let me walk you down the aisle?’
Sown seeds of discontent, I understand;
Must beauty now become this beast called man?

I spied a tufted titmouse in a tree,
Against the backdrop of a winter grey;
He blended in so near, so perfectly,
Except the splash of peach he wore was gay.
He took no notice of the frozen blight
As he did flit from crooked branch to branch,
And as he moved he kept me in his sight,
Each move I made, he warily did watch.
I said, ‘sweet titmouse where will you now go,
A blizzard soon upon us, this I hear?
All this, all life soon girded up with snow,
And you but feathered frail, of this I fear.’
He soldiered on, not heeding my behest,
In solemn grey with orange emblazoned chest.

Selena, goddess of the silver moon,
Why do you gaze upon me from afar?
Your pallid beauty makes all lovers swoon
And long I dream to travel where you are.
Last night I saw you in a saffron dress,
So coy, between the shadowed purple trees;
Soft peeking at me, daring to say yes,
Your swollen bosom, begging to say please;
But you were merely teasing me it seems,
Much as you have a thousand nights before,
Caressing me with tempting vestal beams
Then rising to coquettish heights of yore.
Sweet torture thus, that men may lose their minds,
But when I sleep, I’ll have you in due time.

I was always thrilled for her sweet letters,
And when I found a scrap I would write back;
I’d lie and say that things were getting better,
That victory was on the nearer track.
In all I wrote I said I’d ever love her;
She would write back and say that she loved me;
Before too long that we would be together,
And raise that perfect oft dreamed family;
But love and war just seem so never ending,
And dreams are oft but mist in burning sun;
One day the letters that she had been sending
Stopped; but for one that said that we were done.
I read the note and pondered while I sat,
That men might ever die for love like that.

We shared a piece of chocolate in the trench,
The very last prized morsel which I had;
It tasted sweet, despite death’s bitter stench,
And for a sweeter moment, he looked glad.
He was sixteen, like others, lied to join;
Fresh faced, strong limbed and eager there to serve.
I had taken him under my short wing,
To steady, when the child had lost his nerve.
I stood the elder, being twenty-one,
And my experience spanned the years of three;
I was the father, he much like the son,
And I would die for him, as he for me.
I had seen others like him come and go –
But Lord not him, please Lord not ever; no.

She wears a poppy on her dress in bleak
November. Like a drop of red upon
Her breast, and so in homage thus to seek
Solace and remember, faces now gone,
Who gave their precious red for the great cause
That fades now like the sound of distant guns,
In minds of some; but to others gives great pause,
Ones who can’t forget those fallen mother’s sons.
Our children have long grown and left, and she
Did not remarry, though she ever could;
I promised her that I would never leave
And so my ghost beside her, ever stood;
Bound to her with a love few men will know,
As her to me, that spot of red does show.

‘Over the top’ he said and so we did,
Hot lead whizzed by our heads like angry bees,
John took one in the chest and down he slid;
I took one low, that brought me to my knees.
Through smoke and haze we saw futility,
No man a coward, but everyone afraid;
The trench, ten yards behind, I still could see,
Its yawning darkness like a welcomed grave.
I crawled behind a burnt out splintered stump
And found some paper in a pocket dry;
I dipped a splinter in my blood and wrote,
And steeled myself as not to shake or cry.
My darling when you read this, I’ll be gone,
Sorry to leave so soon, please raise our son.